


Oaths

by sordes



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: The Next Generation (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Two big boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-30 01:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17214494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sordes/pseuds/sordes
Summary: Worf sighs through his nose, his shoulders sagging slightly; a clear indication that he’s giving up the high ground. In a show of tenderness, he presses his lips to Riker’s finger, then pulls back slightly. “I understand. And while your concern for my well being is unnecessary, I appreciate the intended sentiment.”Though Riker’s fears haven’t been completely assuaged, he cracks one of his perfect grins, pearly whites and deep blue eyes no doubt gleaming in the relative dark of the cabin. “Good. Can we get you cleaned up now?”Worf has some explaining to do after being rescued from the Borg attack on Earth.





	Oaths

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and my first step into the realm of TNG fic. Takes place during First Contact.

It takes all of Riker’s strength to corral Worf in the dark cabin.

After beaming Worf onto the Enterprise mere seconds before his craft explodes during the Borg assault on Earth, both are shaken, running on adrenaline and instinct. Riker knows he’s needed— _they’re_ needed—on the bridge, but given his relationship with Worf he finds his legs carrying him from the bridge to sickbay only to grab a few likely needed tools, then to find Worf to pull him aside.

Riker doesn’t know what he’ll say or what he’ll do. All he knows is he’s mad as hell, all that vitriol rightly pointed at the Borg now being channeled to a much closer outlet: Worf. He shouldn’t have been there, in the middle of the battle. He had no reason to be there. What if he had died? Were the Enterprise not there he surely would’ve—and would Riker ever have known? Would he have spent years wondering and searching and never learning the truth?

He knows full well that Worf values his Klingon honor, a quality he admires and respects. But now, for the first time, it’s a trait he can only interpret as foolish pride and an out of control death drive—and it’s got him mad as hell.

Riker says as much to Worf, when he does get him in a secluded cabin. He rants and rails till he’s red in the face, Worf just standing there listening, not saying a word. Worf isn’t infinitely patient, though, so when Riker’s yelling eventually gets to be too much to bear he breaks his silence with a sudden ferocity.

“I took a sacred oath!” he bellows, stunning Riker to silence. “An oath to die in battle, on my feet, fighting. The taste of blood in my mouth and the battlecries of my comrades in my ears.”

Riker exhales deeply (a lungful of air he wasn’t aware he’d been holding), and just lets that hang in the air for a few seconds before speaking. “And what of the oath we took? We agreed to never let it get in the way of our careers, yes. I never objected to you leaving the Enterprise—and I know better than anyone the risks attached with being a member of Starfleet.”

“Then you have no right to—”

“Charging blindly into a Borg warship is not a part of that risk. That was tantamount to suicide.”

Worf’s lips curl into a snarl. “I was defending _your_ homeworld!”

“Those were not your orders!”

“Neither were they yours, and yet here you are, Commander.”

They’re standing toe to toe, so close Riker can smell the blood and smoke on Worf’s uniform, see the bits of singed hair escaping his ponytail.

“I would gladly give my life to save your world,” Worf intones, each syllable biting into Riker’s resolve.

Riker knows he isn’t in the right here. Under Picard’s orders they, too, charged blindly into the conflict in a desperate defense of Earth—a foolish act that he fully supported. He’s well aware of the hypocrisy, but it’s never been easy to accept Worf (with his fervid notions of Klingon honor) throwing himself in harm’s way. Especially not since he left the Enterprise.

Riker holds Worf’s gaze for another beat, but knows he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. “Damnit, Worf.” He exhales sharply, throwing his hands up. “You’re too noble for your own good.”

“This has nothing to do with nobility.” Worf squares his chest, not backing down an inch despite Riker’s shift to diffuse the situation. “I will not be cowed into apologizing—”

“And I’m not asking you to.” Riker shakes his head, regretting opening this can of worms. “I just—I was worried, alright?”

“You have no reason to worry about me.”

“Oh? So you don’t worry about me, then?”

Worf looks almost offended. “Are you undermining Captain Picard’s command?”

Riker rolls his eyes. For all the times he’s been deeply grateful for Worf’s straightforwardness, there is an equal amount of times where his inability to parse Riker’s subtext has frustrated him to no end. He tries again.

“No. Worf, just listen to me for a minute.”

Worf takes a few deep breaths in through his nose, his nostrils flaring in that way they do when he’s fighting against his temper. Riker licks the pad of his thumb quick, and before Worf can protest, wipes a smear of ash away from his cheek.

“I know well how you want to meet your end. And I thank you, as a member of Starfleet and an Earthborn, for bravely charging into battle. But—” Riker quiets Worf’s protest by pressing a finger to his lips. “—I’m only human. I worry. I… don’t know what I’d do, if I lost you. That’s it.”

Worf sighs through his nose, his shoulders sagging slightly; a clear indication that he’s giving up the high ground. In a show of tenderness, he presses his lips to Riker’s finger, then pulls back slightly. “I understand. And while your concern for my well being is unnecessary, I appreciate the intended sentiment.”

Though Riker’s fears haven’t been completely assuaged, he cracks one of his perfect grins, pearly whites and deep blue eyes no doubt gleaming in the relative dark of the cabin. “Good. Can we get you cleaned up now?”

Worf nods.

Although Worf doesn’t admit to it, it’s clear as he tries to strip out of his uniform that his shoulder’s banged up, its range of movement dramatically limited. The minor cuts and scratches on his face, neck, and arms are taken care of quickly with the device Riker nabbed (read: borrowed) from sickbay. Riker takes care of those before Worf can manage to get his wounded shoulder out of his sleeve, so he steps in to help ease off the jacket, exposing a gnarly purplish bruise splashed over the joint. He eases Worf down to sit in one of the chairs, then leans in to examine his shoulder closer.

“Doesn’t look broken…” Riker’s no doctor, but he’s seen enough broken limbs in his day to judge. He feels the joint gently, careful not to prod or squeeze too hard. “Think it’s just dislocated. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Worf shrugs with his good shoulder. “It could wait.”

“Only a Klingon would let a dislocated shoulder wait,” Riker mumbles under his breath. All Starfleet recruits receive a basic education of first aid, how to use the standard tools in any medic’s kit, etcetera. Resetting a joint was a part of that curriculum, but definitely not something he’s had the opportunity to practice much over the years.

Still, with the measured calm of a man of his rank, Riker takes Worf’s arm in hand, and braces himself higher up on Worf’s shoulder. “This is going to hurt.”

“I know,” Worf says, stoic as ever.

At least it’s quick.

While Worf is still a hair dazed from the sharp pain of his shoulder being put back in place, Riker uses the opportunity to slip his jacket off completely, and discards it on the ground. He does want to check for any other superficial wounds, or any indications of internal bleeding, but there’s definitely an ulterior motivation behind his actions, too.

In truth, it’s been months since they’ve seen one another face to face. Voice and video coms are a standard for them, but there’s only so long until getting each other off remotely grows stale. Riker can feel his heartbeat accelerate as he smooths his hands over Worf’s musclucar chest and down his stomach, just as strong and solid as it was when they first began serving together years ago.

Little has changed about Worf’s appearance in all these years. Sure his hair’s a bit longer, he wears his beard a bit differently, but he’s stayed in impeccable shape—a credit to his race. Riker knows time hasn’t been _as_ kind to him, on the other hand; his middle is definitely thicker than when he graduated from Starfleet Academy. But it’s something that doesn’t seem to bother Worf. By the same measure, Worf’s lack of change doesn’t bother Riker in the least.

“My chest was not wounded in the attack, Commander,” Worf says bluntly, pulling Riker from his thoughts. “Would you like to do a thorough examination on the rest of me?”

Sometimes it’s hard to tell if Worf’s joking or not.

“You can’t really blame me, can you?” Riker settles his hands on Worf’s knees, now kneeling between his legs.

“We don’t have much time.”

Riker flashes a grin. “If we skip the song and dance of it…”

For the longest time, Riker had difficulty telling if Worf found his advances endearing or annoying (or more likely, a mixture of the two). Even now, his stoicism can be hard to read, but that’s not to say Worf isn’t capable of surprising Riker.

Worf leans in, his hands settling on Riker’s waist and kisses him deeply—a full zero to sixty maneuver complete with that both needy and pushy sound of his that he makes in the back of his throat. “As you humans say, the clock is ticking,” he says when he pulls back.

Indeed it is.

There’s a time for taking it slow, for them to take one another part slowly, relishing each touch and kiss. But now is not the time.

Worf pulls Riker into another series of kisses, claiming his mouth with an urgent force perfectly masked up till now. Riker wastes little time either, his hands undoing Worf’s trousers with a practiced ease. He fishes out Worf’s cock, heavy and half-hard already, and gives it a series of heady pulls, enjoying how hot it is in his hand. Their physiology is much the same, where it matters, but the size of Worf’s cock has always been a stand out, despite Worf’s own assertions that he’s completely average—for a Klingon.

Worf grunts into Riker’s mouth as he bucks his hips up into Riker’s hand. His kisses gradually devolve into bites, and not the playful nips most lovers choose to give, but full on _bites._ Drawing blood isn’t unusual for them, and Riker snarls as Worf does just that, biting down on Riker’s bottom lip.

There’s a bit of a fight then. Riker attempts to hold Worf in place with one hand as he continues to stroke Worf to full hardness with the other, while Worf gropes for Riker’s groin. Although Worf getting a hand on his cock is certainly appealing, in the heat of the moment Riker isn’t about to let anything get between him and Worf’s cock—even if it’s his own immediate pleasure.

Given their positions relative to one another, though, Riker has the distinct advantage. He uses his arms and elbows to hold Worf’s legs down then goes for it, dipping his head down to take Worf’s cock into his mouth. Riker swirls his tongue around Worf, the salt of his skin and precum mixing with the blood on his lip, and relaxes his jaw and throat as he takes Worf in deep. There’s always a strain on his jaw when he does this, a dull ache that lights a fire in his belly and gets his own cock hard. Blowing Worf is messy, hard work—in no short order Riker can feel a mixture of spit and precum leak from his mouth, sullying his beard and possibly his uniform, but there’s no feeling like it in the universe: Worf gripping his shoulder hard, pushing him down deeper, hearing Worf’s grunts grow more and more erratic, his breathing begin to hitch and grow raspy.

Worf lets Riker have his way for a time, allows him to do as he pleases (aside from a rather gruff command for Riker to _show me those blue eyes_ —and who says romance is dead?) until he decides not to. In a show of that Klingon strength of his, Worf pushes back on Riker’s shoulders as he slides down from the chair, pinning Riker beneath him on the ground.

Pupils blown out with desire and black as jet, Worf makes quick work of Riker’s uniform, shoving his jacket up and pulling open his pants. Riker hisses when Worf pulls out his cock; there’s nothing teasing about his calloused grip. Worf gives him a few good strokes then lets go, leaving Riker to strain his neck to see him reach over and give his own cock a good pull, gathering some of the residual spit and precum, to lubricate his grip on Riker’s cock.

They jerk one another off for a time, Worf caging Riker in with his thighs, Riker using his free hand to hold Worf in close by his ponytail. Trading bites and kisses, one man swallows the other’s gasps and moans.

Tenderness and a recently dislocated shoulder be damned. It’s crystal clear to both of them that after being apart for months and both very nearly losing their lives, the thing they need now is fierce and all-encompassing.

Worf knocks Riker’s hand away from his cock and repositions his hips so his fist can accommodate both cocks. It’s a tight fit, but slick and hot and luridly good, both men thrusting against one another. At some point Riker loses his grip on Worf’s ponytail, allowing Worf to slip down and bite Riker’s shoulder. Riker barks at the sudden pain but thrusts up into Worf’s hand all the harder, his vision blurs for a second, nerves soaring at the mix of pleasure and pain.

Riker groans Worf’s name, losing his composure (what little bit is left of it, anyway) with each thrust and squelch of their cocks in Worf’s hand. Worf growls something in return, muffled by Riker’s shoulder, an encouragement to come most likely. By tightening his fist just sightly, holding on much longer really doesn’t seem possible.

Worf brings Riker across the finish line with a roar—literally and figuratively. His shout—or warcry—is muffled by Riker’s shoulder as he switches from passively letting Riker thrust into his fist back to jerking their cocks off. A strong thumb pressed to Riker’s slit, calloused pads squeezing Riker’s shaft—it’s too much and Riker goes toppling off the edge.

When the world starts to filter in again, complete with the dull ache in his shoulder and the sound of Worf’s heavy breathing, Riker finds the strength to pull Worf down to the ground at his side.

“Give your shoulder a rest,” he says, voice husky with afterglow. Riker has to pull Worf’s hand away from his cock, straining and painfully hard, its purple-red tip leaking freely.

Worf, though somewhat tongue-tied from his arousal, is preparing a few choice words for Riker’s interruption, but holds his tongue when Riker returns his mouth to its former work. Klingons have a different taste than humans—well, at least Worf does; Riker shouldn’t generalize for an entire race—muskier, headier. It was too overpowering in the beginning, something Riker could barely stomach. Love does a lot to change things like that, though, as now it’s all Riker can do to take Worf down deeper, swallowing every drop of Worf’s precome that he can get.

Worf holds Riker down on his cock when he comes, every inch of him pulsing and burning so much that Riker can’t help but smile around his cock. Riker does a good job of swallowing all that Worf has to give, and gives his shaft a good cleaning when the pulsing ceases, running his tongue all over before he pulls back, letting Worf’s cock fall from his mouth with a wet _plop._

They take a few minutes to collect themselves, Worf lying on his back and Riker a heap sprawled over his stomach. Both men are sticky and sweaty and possibly a little worse for wear, though remarkably clear headed for what it’s worth.

“Did you have to bite my shoulder?” Riker asks when he regains the ability to string a coherent sentence together. He twists his neck to look up at Worf, wincing a little at the pull on his shoulder.

Worf clears his throat. “A standard ritual for mated Klingons. Our injuries should be mirrored.”

“First time I heard of that one.” Riker shifts to his side and props his head up with a hand, careful not to get anything in his hair.

“There are many intricacies of the Klingon mating customs you’ve yet to master, Commander.” Worf curls and arm beneath his head so he can get a better look at Riker. “A shortfall of yours that I happen to find… endearing.”

“You don’t say.” Riker gives him his best ‘I know you’re full of shit’ grins but drops the line of questioning.

They stay on the ground for a little while longer before both men hardwired to serve determine it’s time to return to the bridge. Well, clean up first, then return. Worf helps Riker to his feet, even offers to help fix up the lip and shoulder bites he inflicted. Riker accepts the help with his lip but turns down the shoulder, something Worf understands—the lip would be harder to explain, after all.

“We’re in this together now, Worf,” Riker says as he smooths out his uniform. “No more suicide missions.”

Worf smirks, though it resembles more of a grimace. “Not unless the Captain gives the orders.”

“In which case, it’s a good day to die, side by side.”

“A good day to die, indeed, Commander.”


End file.
